


Don't Let It Ride You

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: The Holy City [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent Parents, Beach Sex, Bottom Sam, Charleston (Location), First Hunt Together, Gullah Legends, Gullah Lore, Inspired by Photography, M/M, Motel Rooms, Photographs Included, Summer, Underage Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam hole up in a South Carolina motel while their Dad lays countless spirits to rest in the haunted grounds of Charleston. It's as close to an ideal summer as they'll get. Dad has plenty of work, and Dean has Sam. That is until locals start dying and the Winchester brothers realize that something other than a spirit, and possibly more sinister, is at work in the Lowcountry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let It Ride You

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I couldn't get the idea of Sam and Dean tackling a hunt in my city out of my head! To me, even though this story is relatively mellow [on purpose] the angst is sort of implied. We know what's coming for the Winchesters, and it feels sad to imagine that at one point, the brothers could have been *happy*.

  
  
_Unitarian Church and Graveyard - Charleston, South Carolina._  


It's hot enough that the sparklers can almost ignite on their own. The moon's pull drags the tides up over marsh grass and Lowcountry, higher than the waters have been all month. There's moisture heavy in the air and it slows everything down, even the insects. The sky's painted with bright watercolor pinks and gray-blues, swirling in trails to follow the setting sun. Halogen street lamps are unsure whether night is coming or going, so flicker with indecision instead.

The cracked cement is warm under Dean's bare feet. Too humid for socks and shoes, even for jeans, but shorts are out of the question. He suffers through, sweat tingling down his back under the thin, tight shirt to catch on the denim waistband. He stays quiet, watching his brother through the summer haze as Sam lights another sparkler from the pack–courtesy of Dean's five finger discount–and waves it halfheartedly.

Sam is wearing as little as he can get away with: olive khaki shorts sitting low on his brother's bony hips, one of Dean's hand-me-down gray tanks clinging to his torso. Fifteen and skinny, Sam doesn't carry an ounce of extra weight. Picking at diner-food, the Winchester brand of exercise, and teenage attitudes keep him lean.

The whoosh-crackle of the sparkler gets louder in Dean's ears. Sam comes closer over the shabby motel's concrete courtyard, thick blades of grass making a valiant effort to push through the large pavers. His brother's face is lit by the bright, fizzling sparks. Dean can see Sam's bright eyes behind the hot, shooting powder, hazel reflecting the light. There's a secret smile for Dean between the sizzling lines, like he and Dean are the center of the universe tonight. Feels like it: waves crashing down on the hard-packed sand, heat that makes Dean dizzy, and his brother waiting until the sparks have all died before he moves fully into Dean's space, and then the heat increases ten fold.

* * *

Three weeks already on the South Carolina coast and surprisingly Dean's not restless yet. The motor court masquerading as home has seen better days. Tucked on the coast between multi-million dollar cottages to the south and double-wides to the north, its residents are largely ignored and inconspicuous. Perfect for nomadic Winchesters who happen to get stuck in a place with more than its fair share of restless spirits and a myriad of local legends.

Dad's out more than he's in, taking the truck and accelerating away into the morning–avoiding something, or avoiding _them_. Plenty of jobs keep him busy: the blemished histories of the southern plantations provide their share of restless spirits, eager for the blood of the _Bukrah_ that the shades can no longer distinguish from their former masters.

The arrangement suits Dean and Sam. They've gone on a few salt n' burns, helped with research. Sam takes newspapers and library copies from their Dad down to the beach; Dean keeps the food stocked and the weapons clean. The summer days pass and when their stay creeps towards a solid month, the hard and wary edge to Sam's eyes disappears and Dean breathes a little easier.

In the height of summer, there's no school for Sam, but he reads tattered paperbacks and well-thumbed classics Dean gathers from garage sales without really looking at their titles. And Sam never cares what Dean gets, just accepts the box with a grin and starts digging through.

The breeze today is cooler and salty, blown in off the Atlantic. Dean makes his way towards the rickety boardwalk running over the dunes and onto the sand. 

He hears the low, sweet whistling before he sees her. The motel owner's wife moves slowly, a handful of sweetgrass clutched in her arms while she steps heavily over the planks and keeps her distance from Dean. She hasn't spoken to any of the Winchesters since they checked in. Didn't shake Dean's hand when he tried to introduce himself on the first day, just kept singing and whistling in her way–melancholy and creepy. She sits in the sun, in simple but colorful clothing, and watches the coming and going of the motel's few guests, weaving her baskets and humming to herself.

The large woman passes by, but at the last minute her coal eyes find Dean's.

"Don' let de hag ride 'ja," she says, mix of Gullah and creole thick on her tongue.

And then she turns away like nothing happened. 

Not wanting to think about it, and pushing away the idea that he's probably just been cursed in some sort of _hoo-doo_ tongue, Dean turns to find Sam seated Indian-style on the sand. Lunch is nothing more than crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jelly on generic white bread, but Sam looks happy anyway. He grabs one of the offered colas and scooches closer to Dean when he sits down on the threadbare motel towel. Sam's bare torso is sun-hot, smells like the tropics, and Dean doesn't mind the extra warmth. His little brother's mouth is full of sticky peanut butter when he starts rambling about the research Dad set him to.

  
  
_Boardwalk and dunes - Kiawah Island, Charleston._  


* * *

One last shovel full of dirt and Dean finally hears the tell tale crack of a wooden coffin lid.

"About time." Dad grumbles and lowers a hand, dragging Dean out of the grave. He could have dug faster, but Sam was squatting at the edge of the hole with a rifle perched on his knees–just watching–sharp angles drawing Dean's eyes again and again.

It can hardly be called a graveyard, set deep on the old plantation grounds. Crude iron fencing barely two feet high, half-broken stones with initials and numbers rather than name and epitaphs. It's a crude step down from the beautifully landscaped, historically celebrated graveyards in downtown Charleston. They're relying on luck and old records to ensure they have the right grave, but with the way their hunts have been going, Dean thinks they might as well dig up and burn every corpse in here. Dad's got the salt and gasoline ready, poured on the old bones like some sort of baptism.

"Dem don wan t'go."

Sam springs up in an instant, rifle leveled at the voice masked by shadows. The match in John's hand burns down to his fingers, extinguishing in a hiss of skin and sulfur.

"Who the hell are you?"

Not a single leaf stirs, no crunch of grass or twigs snapping. Their voyeur stands motionless.

"Dem cawpses not nun ayuh bidness." At least it's an answer, though not a helpful one. "Dey 'f 'aid."

John steps out towards the darkness. "They're hurting innocent people."

The bodiless voice's accent is as heavy as the motel owner's and his wife's, only deeper. "Bin hurt. Dem n'gwanna let go."

There's old pain in the voice, scratchy to cover centuries of embattled history.

"They're not going to stop." John sounds perfectly rational, considering. Like he's explaining to a child. "Do you want more people to get hurt?"

Silence from behind the twisting oaks. Then: "honor de'grabes. Be done wit' dis place."

Resigned, but a clear warning. John calls something back but there's no further response. The silence lasts for five more minutes–all three Winchesters remaining still–until Dad throws another match in the grave and the old indentured bones light up.

Dean chalks it up to another bought of creepiness in an overly creepy city, and watches the flames rise.

  
  
_Grave overtaken by nature and time - Charleston._  


* * *

**Bernard Chisholm, 28, dies in his sleep.**

_Bernard Chisholm, of Awendaw, passed away in his sleep on Tuesday evening. He was found by his wife, Natalie, at their home on Wednesday morning. Police have not yet ruled Chisholm's death as suspicious and investigators remained at the residence today. Chisholm is survived by his wife..._

Sam hands the paper back to Dean.

"Still don't see anything suspicious about it, Sammy."

"A twenty-eight year old doesn't just suddenly die of natural causes."

"Doesn't mean it's our kind of case. He could have been poisoned."

Sam huffs.

"What?" Dean throws the _Post & Courier_ on the floor. "You know something about it that you want to share?"

Sam shakes his head, floppy hair going bronze from the constant sunlight.

"Then what, Sam?"

"I just think we should look into it."

"You _think_?" Sam's stare doesn't budge and Dean just sighs. "Fine, I'll tell Dad about it, if he doesn't have it flagged already."

"No!" Sam's hand shoots out to grab Dean's wrist. "Just you and me." When Dean isn't convinced, Sam throws out an ace. "You've already tried to work a couple of cases on your own. Why not this one?"

The fact that Sam has picked out a hunt is enough of a mind-trip, but he seems excited. Dean almost _Christo_ 's him for kicks.

"What made you focus on this dude's death?"

Sam's eyes dart away, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know–I just thought.... Come on, Dean."

"All right, Jesus." The newspaper crunches under his boot when he stands. Dad's been gone since sunrise, checking out a haunted courtyard downtown. They've got nothing else to do to wile away the muggy hours besides sit on the beach, or sleep. "Grab the paper, let's check out this guy's house."

"What are we going to tell Dad?"

Dean ruffles Sam's hair when he passes; whatever he is, he's still Sam's big, obnoxious brother. Sam swats his hand, but does it with a grin, already filling his old backpack. 

He takes a deep breath when Sam isn't looking. Dean keeps waiting for that moment, when teenage angst will overcome being brothers. When Sam will turn on him, on their family, and become some kind of monster. He's still _Sammy_ now–Dean's little brother, Dean's world–and God if that's not the best thing Dean's felt in his up and down life.

"Let me worry about Dad." Dean slings his own bag over his shoulder. "You ready?"

When they go, the motel owner's wife is sitting outside the motel office, a broom propped against the wall behind her. Dean hurries Sam to the Impala before she can say anything.

* * *

Chisholm's house is a bust. Zilch on the EMF and the single story home is Stepford-normal, except for the fact that it sits ten feet above the ground on solid beams. Maybe Chisholm was expecting Noah's flood.

Whatever cops were left at the house to "investigate" are gone; it's no trouble for them to slip onto the porch and jimmy a window. Dean's tucking the EMF back into his bag when Sam calls him from the back of the house.

"I got nothing, Sammy," he starts, trails off when he sees Sam looking around the Chisholm's master bedroom. "You find anything?"

"No sign of a spirit, but can't you smell it?"

"I don't smell any ozone," Dean doesn't particularly want to sniff the air again, and tries to breathe through his mouth. "All I smell is–"

"Rotting meat?"

"Dead body."

"Nope." Sam grins and goes to open a window. Even that doesn't help the smell. "The guy was only in here twelve hours at most before he was hauled off. It's not decomposition. It smells more like," Sam shrugs again, "rotting meat."

"Smells like a rotting body." Dean backs into the hallway where the air is slightly fresher. "But why, does rotten meat mean anything to you?"

"Maybe." Sam may not be riding the full teenage hormonal roller coaster, but he's developed some annoying habits in the last few years. Like that infuriating smirk saying he knows something he's not telling Dean. And in a family of hunters, that doesn't fly.

"Sam."

"I'll tell you when we get back, okay? I don't think there's anything else here, anyway."

Pulling onto Highway 17, Dean wonders when exactly he became Sam's backup on a hunt. Sitting side by side in the Impala with a fresh case in their laps, it's not a bad feeling. He can almost forget they didn't come to South Carolina by choice.

Back at the motel, Dean showers off the sour smell from the house. For once, there's no need to conserve the hot water. That's pretty much all that comes out of the pipes–heat in the air permeating into the ground. It still feels good, a near-scalding shower in ninety-five degree weather. Sam is no where to be found when he comes out, but the beach is as good a guess as any.

Dean has always felt weird about the ocean. It's gorgeous, but it's just a piece of the coast where the rocks have been ground down to fine sand over the eons. Here on the Carolina shore, it's more like a tiny sliver of pristine white that hasn't yet been eroded by waves and hurricanes. But he gets to thinking about how deep the waters can run–fathomless in Sam's words–and so much of the unknown hiding beneath the choppy surface. It's more than a little off-putting; the thought has Dean taking a step back from the tide line.

The beach is empty–the other guests apparently are not the fun-in-the-sun types. He turns to walk back to the dunes when Sam appears on the boardwalk, holding two glasses of iced, amber liquid.

"Where the hell did you go?"

"Just around." Sam offers a glass to Dean before he can get pissed at the nonchalance. "Want some sweet tea?"

"Where'd you get it?"

"From Marietta." His brother takes a sip and smacks his lips, a percussive sound that makes Dean shiver.

"Marietta?"

"Henri's wife." Sam looks at him. "The guy who runs the motel?"

"Right." A second glance at the tea reveals nothing more sinister in the glass than a lemon wedge, but he hears Sam snickering. "Dude, shut up. I think she tried to curse me." Dean swallows a large gulp of the tea to cover his flush, syrupy-sweet coolness easing the sun's rays.

"I don't blame her," Sam mocks in the perfect little-brother tone. He laughs and spins away but Dean's quicker, catching Sam by the wrist and pulling him close. Tea sloshes out of both their glasses, landing with wet thunks on the sand.

Back to front, they stand watching each wave roll in before getting sucked back to sea. The condensation on the glasses makes them slippery, so Dean sets his in the sand and sits, Sam following. A soft crinkle catches Dean's ear when he brings his legs up to frame Sam's narrow hips.

"What d'you have there?"

Sam draws out a grayish-green piece of grass, a warm blush–definitely not just from the sun–tinting his cheeks. The blades of sweetgrass have been folded and twisted, shaped into the crude form of a rose. Dean recognizes the local trinket; children sell them to flocks of tourists downtown.

"Marietta made it for me." Sam folds back against Dean's chest.

"You two becoming best friends or something?" Dean snips a little petulantly, but the large woman has never come off as anything other than disturbing. The hell does Sam see in her?

"No, she's just nice."

"Bet she is," Dean doesn't really want to argue the point. There are better ways to spend his afternoon, such as the line of Sam's shoulder exposed by the loose neck of his t-shirt. His little brother's skin is so tanned and smooth, and radiates warmth even in the dead of night. It's the perfect spot for Dean's lips, tucked into Sam's neck. They relax almost simultaneously, another afternoon without Dad's awkward side-glances and mutterings.

"So what's the next move on your hunt, Sammy?"

"My hunt?"

"Mmhmm," Dean exhales, then breathes in the unmistakably _summery_ smell surrounding Sam. "You found it."

"Okay." Sam leans into the touch. "Do you think you can drive me to the library downtown? They have a huge local history section, and there's a few things I want to look up."

"Sure," Dean agrees, but doesn't let go of Sam. "We'll grab some lunch on the way." And Sam doesn't move either, except to bend his neck so there's more dark skin for Dean. 

This is as close to an ideal summer as Dean's ever gotten. With Dad occupied more often than not, he's left with Sam to do as they please. When he's not training, or trying to drag Sam to train with him, Dean just watches Sam. Growing up together, Dean had never taken the time to stop and look, _really_ look, to see the changes in his little brother. Now, he can see just how much Sam has grown up. And Dean did that. He helped raise this kid, now a young man. When their relationship turned, there was the inevitable guilt, but then, epiphany compliments of Beam and a few melancholy metal ballads, he realized that he was so wound up in Sam, there was no getting out. It was the most terrifying–and at the same time, the most encouraging–feeling Dean had ever known.

People are willing to spend their entire lives in a search for their other half. Nearly a year ago, Dean figured out that his had been with him all along. That Sam seemed to feel the same way was no small wonder–something Dean would never take for granted.

A few minutes later, Dean notices that Sam's eyes are closed and his tea sits forgotten on the sand. He picks up the sweetgrass rose from where it's fallen on the dune, and tucks it back into Sam's pocket. They stay there, Dean drifting while Sam sleeps, until the sun passes its apex and the tide moves away.

* * *

**Elizabeth Warner, 31, found dead in her apartment on Friday morning.**

The article reads the same as Chisholm's. Mysterious, non-violent death of an otherwise perfectly healthy adult. Sam drops the paper in Dean's lap as soon as he's finished rereading.

"It's got to be the same thing."

"And we have no idea what." Dean doesn't bother scanning the short article again, nor does he try to say it's not a Winchester kind of case. He hasn't forgotten the putrid, inhuman smell in Chisholm's bedroom. "Anything from your research clinking here, Sammy?"

He gets a mumbled 'no.' Sam's concentrating on his notes from the Charleston Public Library.

"You want to stay here while I check out this chick's apartment?"

"Nah, I'll go." Sam hip-checks him when he stands, and Dean kind of wants to grab him and forget about the hunt for another hour. It's achingly hot and unappealing outside.

As if Sam knows the carnal path Dean's mind is wandering, he steps out of big brother's reach, smirking. So much for _that_ diversion.

"Later, Dean."

When they step out of the room and into the heat, a broom clatters to the concrete.

"What the hell?" Dean bends, picking up the straw broom. "Did you see this here last night?"

"No," but Sam's contemplating. His eyes dart from the object in Dean's hands, out to the parking lot, and down the line of identical doors.

"Maid must have left it here." Like it's some kind of cursed artifact, Dean gingerly sets the broom back against the wall, wishing he believed _himself_. "Come on, let's go before Dad gets back."

  
  
_The Sword Gate, as referenced in the local tale, The Sword's Gate Romance - Charleston._  


* * *

"Maybe we should tell Dad."

"No way." Sam glances at the bathroom door; they can still hear the shower running. "This is _ours_ , you promised."

Dean's got no memory of promising anything. "Fine, but we're no closer to figuring this out and now there are two victims."

"But we've got clues." His little brother's eyes are wide and earnest, sincere intention flushing his cheeks. "The smell was in Elizabeth's place too, and look!" He brandishes a tri-folded piece of paper. "She worked at the same law firm as Bernard."

"Seriously?" Dean's eyes scan the paycheck stub Sam had lifted from the apartment. _Impressive, Sammy_.

"She was a junior partner and Bernard was the firm's accountant. I saw one of his business cards when we were–"

The pipes clunk and shudder in the walls when the shower is turned off. Sam huffs and rushes to stuff his notes into his backpack.

"Guess we're checking the firm out on Monday," Dean takes a deep breath, getting to his feet just as the bathroom door creaks open, releasing vapor into the already steaming air. The air conditioning has a hard time coping with the mid afternoon hot spells.

Dad emerges from the steam, redressed and looking more awake that he had half an hour ago when he walked back into the room after a night spent keeping watch over his _supposedly_ haunted courtyard.

"Any luck?"

"It was a bust," Dad rubs his face, already red from the hot water. "I swear, half of the stories in this place are made up, and the other half...it's like no one wants to get rid of the damn spirits!"

Dean has seen plenty of evidence of that downtown. Ghost tours, themed restaurants, and compilations of local lore–not to be confused with history–in every corner shop. In the Holy City, ghosts are a bankable attraction. 

It looks like Dad wants to laugh. But then his expression hardens and his eyes narrow.

'I don't care what these wackos believe." He starts repacking weapons and rock salt. "Their star-crossed, god damned lovers'll turn violent eventually. Best to stop them now before anyone gets hurt."

It almost trails off into a question, but Dean doesn't bother nodding.

"You boys ready to head out?"

"Dad, you just got back." Sam's voice is cautious, trying so hard not to be confrontational. "Don't you think -"

"Been here long enough as it is," Dad cuts him off and doesn't notice when Sam's face falls. "But I got word of another hunt in the area that I wanted to check out before going back to the courtyard tonight, and I want you boys with me."

Dean wants to slide over and grab Sam's shoulder; his brother looks so pissed off.

"Apparently, there were some nasty pirate murders up the coast a ways, back in the eighteen-hundreds. And the bodies were never quite laid to rest. Sound interesting enough?" Dad adds sternly, reading Sam's mood from across the room. He doesn't wait for their answer, always assumed compliance, before walking out with his bag.

"Dean..." Sam hisses, an angry exhale of air.

"I promise, we'll get back to your case afterward, all right?" Dean arbitrates. "And besides, it's freakin' _pirates_ , Sammy. Come on!"

* * *

Dad doesn't bring them to the courtyard later that night. He masks the decision with the excuse of 'better sleeping arrangements'. This way, Dean and Sam can sleep in the two queens, and Dad will sleep a spell during the muggy, still evenings. No one is relegated to the floor. In theory, anyway.

Dean's pretty sure there's another reason entirely, but he keeps quiet.

Sam's facing away from him, physical distance coupled with an emotional wall Dean is getting used to climbing.

"Still pissed?"

There's no answer for a few minutes. From the rhythm of his breathing, Sam is still awake, so Dean stretches out on the bed next to his brother. Muscle-relaxing routines help bleed the tension from his frame, or else sleep would be next to impossible.

"It feels like our vacation's ending," the quieter teenager finally mutters.

Dean's not really sure what that's supposed to feel like. Vacations are as foreign to him as bouillabaisse or a lobster dinner. But Sammy's tone is somber enough that Dean feels the regret and reluctance.

"But all we've done is go on hunts, or help Dad. That's not really a vacation."

"Yeah, but I'm hunting with you."

"There's a difference?"

Sam turns over then and Dean loses whatever answer he would have seen in his eyes.

* * *

  
  
_Downtown Charleston_  


The Hatch & Davidson law firm's building sits behind an intricately designed wrought iron gate and a small entrance yard that's landscaped with impeccable detail. But the walkway isn't swept, and the tiny dark palmetto seeds from the trees above litter the brick.

Only Dean goes in. Thanks to Sam, he can pass as a college student hoping for an internship. Inside, the office isn't nearly the bright, cheerful place promised by the exterior. The receptionist, behind her sharp-edged steel and glass desk, has red, puffy eyes and no smile for Dean.

"Can I help you?" There's a wet sniffle in her voice that doesn't sound quite like a cold.

"My name's Jeff Lawson and I called last week about a possible fall internship?"

The petite brunette glances at a haphazardly stacked pile of notes to her left, and sighs. "Sorry, it's been kind of rough here since last week. What did you say your name was again?"

"Lawson, but hey," Dean pauses and throws the receptionist his most sympathetic look. "Is everything all right around here? You seem really stressed."

"The firm's had some really bad luck lately." She pulls a tissue from a nearby box and wipes at the corners of her eyes even though they're dry. "It's crazy, but maybe we're cursed."

"Well, it's not a totally crazy thing to say, but what makes you think that?"

"Two of our employees died last week, one was my really good friend." Then she laughs and the sound is part dry humor and part sniffle. "I thought it was only celebrity deaths that came in threes."

"Three?"

"Yeah, before Bernie and Liz, our boss Mr. Hatch passed away a few weeks ago. It's just _horrible_." She needs the tissues now, eyes finally starting to tear, trailing dark makeup to the corners of her eyes. "I mean, who has that kind of bad luck? I just - oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you with any of this."

"It's all right," Dean grins disarmingly, the same _'tell me everything_ ' smile employed successfully by every therapist in the country. "My friends say I'm a good listener, I don't mind."

And like so many women have before her, she falls into the Winchester ease. 

"Okay."

* * *

  
  
_Charleston Custom's House_  


"I can't believe I missed that!"

Sam is slouched down in the passenger seat, dejection in every muscle. He looks pissed at himself, at Dean, at the circumstances of a frustrating hunt. Hell, Dean watched as Sam glared daggers at the walkers and joggers while they drove over one of the massive bridges spanning Charleston's rivers. Dissatisfaction fills the car, and Dean curses when someone cuts him off–yet another South Carolina driver who doesn't know what their turn signal is for.

"Dude, it's not a big deal."

"It _is_ ," Sam insists, all but throwing his notes in the air. "I figure out the law firm, but I miss the death of one of the partners?"

"Well, we know now." Placating Sam is similar to placating Dad. Try your damnedest to move on without letting him beat himself up. "And now we probably know where this all started, and _why_."

Joan, the receptionist, had been surprisingly revealing. It figured that office gossip never slipped past the firm's gatekeeper. Once Dean got her to talk, there was no stopping until Dean was treated to her depth of personal knowledge on the three victims. Chisholm and Warner were nothing special–average employees with good, wholesome lives–but Evanston Hatch was a different story. According to Joan, Hatch had been a bit of a philanderer, most recently seen consorting with a very perky judge's clerk.

"Yeah, I missed that too."

"We missed it, Sammy. The death of that clerk was almost a month ago, before the lawyer's, and we had no reason to look."

Four deaths now, and this impromptu-turned-serious case is starting to make Dean antsy. 

"Hatch's wife has a clear reason to want revenge on her husband and the other woman," Sam's thinking out loud. "She could have set whatever this is, in motion, and maybe -"

"Maybe this _thing_ just couldn't stop," Dean finishes. "Warner and Chisholm were unexpected damages. You let the beast out of its cage, and you lose control of it."

"So we've got revenge as a motive, deaths that appear natural, and something you can't control..." Then Sam's face lights up like a salted bones. "Holy _shit_."

"What?"

"I think I might know what's doing this!"

"Care to share?"

And just like Dad's, Sam's grin gives nothing away and he shakes his head. He's figured out the puzzle, but whether or not he wants to be sure before telling Dean, or if he just likes keeping it to himself a tad longer, Dean has no idea.

They race a summer storm back up the coast to the motel. It's dark to the south–mottled gray clouds billowing and menacing–but clear to the north, and an easterly wind blows Sam and Dean back into their room. Dean knows immediately that Dad's been back - small, telltale disturbances Dean doesn't remember leaving. But Sam's already diving on the bed, grabbing the books he couldn't carry downtown. 

All Dean can do is stand and watch as Sam flips through one of the books, snaps his fingers, and dashes back to the open door. Sam grabs the broom, still propped up outside, and holds it like a trophy.

"The _broom_ , Dean!"

"Is really creepy and shouldn't be there?"

"No! I should have guessed when I saw the broom!" Sam waits for Dean to get it, but he really, honestly doesn't. "I think she was trying to protect us once we got involved."

" _Who_ is protecting us from _what_?" He adds a little frustration–okay, more than a little–into his voice, because playing twenty questions with a hunt gets on Dean's nerves.

"Marietta." Sam says it like it should be obvious to Dean. "She was trying to protect us from the hag!"

The storm has caught up with them; the light in the room dims when clouds obscure the sun. Dean smells the rain before it comes, harsh and metallic in his nose. Strange, ominous words come back to Dean at the first low rumble in the distance.

"Wait, a _hag_? You mean that woman actually cursed me?"

"What woman?"

"Marietta, your new friend." Dean tries to remember exactly what she'd said. "It was something about a hag riding me, and not in the appealing way, either."

"That's just a saying, Dean. ' _Don't let the hag ride you_.'"

"Sounded creepier when she said it."

"Yeah, she's kind of hard to understand sometimes."

Sam is still holding the straw broom like a shield, staring past Dean and out into the sudden, summer downpour. There's steam drifting up from the concrete courtyard, a product of hot stone and cool rain.

"But hags are just creepy old witches. And we didn't find any trace of hexes, or of a coven being involved here."

"And we wouldn't, Dean. Not if it was a _boo_ -hag."

Before Dean can pretend to know what Sam is talking about, his little brother trades broom for book and eagerly starts explaining. 

"Boo-hags aren't human, so they're not witches. They're a kind of physical spirit, but there aren't any bones to find, or salt and burn. The Gullah people believe that they're like female demons, or the spirits of dead witches."

"So someone can conjure one of these spirit crones?"

"More like _hire_ them," Sam checks his book. "I think you have to offer them something in return, but I'm not sure what. It's no guarantee they won't come after you once you do, though."

"And the riding?"

"It's how they kill. Almost like the old vampire tales, except hags come in the night to steal your breath, not your blood. They sit on their victim's chest, suffocating them. The hags _ride_ them, basically. Sometimes people can knock them off and survive."

"Kinky." Sam scowls at him. "So that's why it looks like a natural death."

"I guess. Except for the smell."

"Yeah, any idea why they're so rank?"

Sam flips to another folded corner in his book. "I'm not really sure. But when have we ever found something evil that smells like roses?"

Dean feels an involuntary smile pulling at his lips and he rubs his hands together. The familiar burn of a good lead settles; it's something solid for Dean to chew on. "Well how about killing the bitches?"

"Definitely easiest at night," Sam confirms.

"Why?"

"Because they're hard to track during the day. Boo-hags wear a skin in sunlight and they're impossible to pick out."

"Like a meat suit?"

"Probably where the smell comes from." Sam hands him the book and Dean skims over the page. "But at night, they shed their skin to feed, making them invisible."

Dean snorts. "Sounds real easy, Sammy."

"It is, if we know where the hag is going. Then all we need is salt."

"Standard _sayonara_ -ghost salt?"

"A salted hag can't get back into her skin. Come sunrise, she'll basically melt away and die."

The corners of Sam's mouth are upturned. He's clearly not finished impressing Dean.

"You think you know who it's going after next, don't you?"

Sam nods. "Got a good idea, yup."

"Kick ass, Sammy."

His little brother grins, proud and happy. They sit together on one of the beds, pressed together over Sam's library plunder.

Outside, the rain drizzles and finally stops. Sunlight is already retaking the sky, rays glinting off new puddles and stray drops. Dean figures he could almost set his watch by these afternoon storms, if anyone in the lazy South bothered to set their watches at all.

  
  
_Cooper River Bridge - Charleston._  


* * *

They've never owned swim trunks, but for Sam, an old pair of worn khaki shorts do the trick. Dean stays on the sand, safe in the shade of a palmetto tree for now, and watches Sam dive headfirst into another cresting wave. The beach is empty; small, winding inlets and rocky points isolate their stretch of shore from neighboring ones.

There's barely a cloud in the sky now, all traces of the storm blown off shore. Sam can't stay away from the beach, like he knows it's not going to last. Winchesters move on, they always move on. Not even Dean can keep this intact for his brother. With nothing to do until sunset, Sam dragged Dean down the boardwalk and out onto the hot sand. When Dad's around, it's _game on_ all the time. But not with Sam. Distractions are good for the soul, letting them relax before they're crushed under the weight of all the evil in their world.

Sam jumps up in the water, sloshing through the low surf towards Dean with the swells breaking around his calves. The shorts are slung low under Sam's tan belly; wet and clinging, the material outlines every bony ridge and plane that Dean knows by heart. Sam's arms swing against the Atlantic breeze, slender and graceful beyond his years.

"You should go in." Sam stands, dripping chilled points of water, over Dean. "It'll help you cool down."

When Sam's close enough, Dean grabs his wrist and pulls his brother into his lap–no one around to witness the open affection.

"But that's why I've got you."

Light skitters between the clacking palm fronds, luminous wounds shifting across Sam's shoulders. Ocean water soaks into Dean's faded jeans and black wife-beater. Christ, it feels almost as good as Sam's mouth on his–cool, salty tongue lazily running along Dean's teeth.

Sam pulls back, eyes half-closed to shield against the penetrating rays of sunlight. "Cool yet?"

"Not in the least."

Everything about his little brother is heated, despite his swim. Dean recalls the steam released on pavement, surprised that Sam's balmy skin doesn't do the same where it's covered in cooler water. Straddling Dean's legs, Sam moves, easy and sure and as lazy as an afternoon spell. Dean's fingers hold but don't tighten, thumbs stroking over the softer skin above Sam's hipbones. His eyes don't have time to adjust between the stripes of sun and darker shade; everything's caught in a kind of haze, accompanied by the ebb and flow of the rolling tide.

"Wanna go back to the room?"

Sam's exhale is gentle against Dean's throat, but holds a shiver of ragged arousal that's confirmed by his darkened pupils. 

"Let's stay here."

It's fine by Dean, and he lays back in the white sand, drawing Sam down with him. His brother's body blocks the rest of the sun, and Dean can finally focus on the body above. Quick tugs and touches get Sam's shorts pushed down to his thighs and Dean's wet jeans opened just enough. What started slowly becomes more frantic as Dean's hot erection touches Sam's ocean-cooled one. The contrast has Dean shuddering and bucking up into Sam's undulating hips.

There's sweat and salt gathered above Sam's lip and Dean licks it away when their mouths separate, one hand on the back of Sam's neck and the other holding their erections in a loose grip. Dean tries to swallow every little moan and whimper his brother makes, grinding up and into his fist. Hot flesh slides together, slicked by water and humidity. His brother's mouth no longer tastes of salt, only _Sammy_ , and Dean presses his tongue deeper. He feels Sam tuck closer against Dean's body, desperate hisses escaping between their lips.

Sam breaks the kiss, turning his face against Dean's throat when he comes, stuttering hips and heavy breaths. Dean pants through his own climax, grip wet from Sam's semen. When he muffles his cry against Sam's ear, biting gently down on the lobe, Sam gives one last shudder before he's spent, going limp on top of Dean.

"Getting up anytime soon?"

Sam mutters something–it sounds like a _no_ –and Dean resigns himself to being a human mattress for a few more minutes. When Sam does get up, he's considerate enough to hastily wipe Dean off with his hand and tuck him back into his jeans. They'll shower before Dad reappears, rinsing the Atlantic away, and get ready for tonight.

Messy and disheveled, Sam walks back to the water alone after failing to drag Dean with him. Thanks to the moon's sway, the tide's already receeding. Sam jumps into the next large wave, washing everything away in an instant.

Dean knows he'll never be able to wash _Sam_ off his skin so easily.

* * *

"So what's the deal with the broom?"

He and Sam are crouched in the darkness outside Evanston Hatch's house. Sam's theory that a boo-hag, no happier about being controlled than any other evil son of a bitch, would come back for the woman who'd likely unleashed it, sounded pretty solid to Dean. Crowning that idea, Hatch's wife Alfreda was a professor of Southern history at one of the local colleges, and that nailed her proverbial coffin shut.

They'd found Hatch's address in the phone book easily enough; it led them to an affluent Mount Pleasant neighborhood where the houses stood on large lots, hidden behind lines of live oaks. The thick trunks and dipping branches spread tens of feet, providing perfect cover to sneak up to the porch.

Sam's response is just as hushed, no more than a breath but Dean can hear him perfectly. "Gullahs believe that hags can't resist stopping and counting all the bristles."

"Seriously?"

"It slows them down, I guess. Hairbrushes work too, or sieves."

"What's a sieve?"

"Something with a lot of holes," Sam whispers back without looking over. His gaze is fixed on the wide, wrap-around porch so common in Charleston. The flickering flames from twin gas lanterns mark the front door, but there's been no sign–or smell–of anything yet.

"How'd you tag this as a hunt in the first place?"

Sam's eyes focus on the ground, evasive.

"Fine, I wasn't going to rag on you or anything. It's just–"

"Just what?" Sam's looking over steadily, almost a challenge.

"Nothing." Dean shakes his head and turns back to the house. He can feel Sam's eyes, unmoving and uncomfortably scrutinizing, and sighs. "You're usually pretty bitchy when it comes to hunting. Now you pick one out and you're suddenly gung-ho?"

He gets an unhelpful shrug of narrow shoulders. It's Dean's turn not to look away. If he's honest, he really doesn't want to talk about this, but it's been bugging him since Sam first shoved the newspaper article under his nose, and there's not a whole lot else to do while they're sitting in the dark, just waiting.

"Marietta." Sam's quiet voice startles Dean, lost in his own head.

"Huh?"

"She gave me the newspaper."

Not really the answer Dean was expecting, by a long shot. Oak leaves shift in the light breeze, a hushed cover for his confusion. "How'd she know what we even do?"

"She believes in this kind of stuff." Sam shrugs. "Guess it's not hard to spot a hunter when you know what to look for."

"And she couldn't tell you what it was, make our jobs easier?"

"I don't think she knew. Maybe she suspected..." Sam trails off.

"Doesn't explain why you wanted a hunt when you're usually such a–"

"Jesus, I just thought it would be fun, okay?" Sam snaps, harsh as it can be while still being quiet.

"Fun?" Dean waits for Sam to laugh, because he's got to be kidding.

But his brother scowls without a hint of humor. "Give it a rest, Dean. Watch the house."

"Yes sir," Dean almost laughs. They turn back towards the house, eyes ready to catch any shift in dim moonlight, the barest hint of anything out of the ordinary. Beyond Sam's new found affinity for hunting with his brother, that is.

Nearly an hour later, Dean switches positions, hears the crack in his knees and elbows when he moves. Sam hasn't said a word, and hasn't moved, but he looks uncomfortable.

"So are you having fun yet?" Dean wonders if Sam hears the affection underneath his sarcasm.

"Shut up."

But Dean catches him grinning.

  
  
_The Angel Oak - John's Island, Charleston_  


* * *

Two nights later, Dean smells it. Putrid, gag-inducing stench of spoiled meat. Sam is dozing off next to him, deep breaths starting to lull Dean into a similar stupor. But his brother jerks up when the rank smell invades his nostrils.

"Bitch is in the house," Dean snorts, as much to blow out the smell as to joke.

Sam's armed only with rock salt, Dean with the extra precaution of a handgun tucked in the back of his jeans. Can never be too careful. 

He nudges his brother towards the back door, already opened by craft or by ignorance, and they pass into a dark kitchen. The smell gets stronger inside the house, burning the inside of Dean's nose.

"Where do you think it leaves its skin?"

"Ugh, dude." Dean chokes a little on the mental picture. "Don't want to know."

With his bag of salt at the ready, Sam motions towards the wide staircase at the end of the hallway. _Bedroom_. On the second floor landing, they hear it: a muffled thunking that's coming from the left. The air is moist and hot–like humidity only more cloying–and the stench sticks in Dean's throat until he thinks he's going to puke all over the shag carpet.

"Breathe through your mouth." Sam sounds like he's trying not to throw up either, voice no more than a careful exhale. The tip helps, but not much. It's enough for Dean to move again, getting into position opposite Sam at the door.

He could break down a thousand doors, already knowing that there's something on the other side intent on killing, but it always shocks Dean for a split second. No such hesitation with Dad, busting in with guns blazing, but he's never called Dean on it. It's barely a moment for Dean to look–to process–before he jumps. Maybe someday it'll mean the difference between saving a life and making a mistake.

Now he only sees Mrs. Hatch, pinned on her bed by an invisible force, but struggling with everything she's got. The whites of her eyes are showing, pupils rolled back as the heavy woman fights for breath.

Dean tries to shout, anything to distract the invisible boo-hag suffocating the lawyer's wife. Sam is quick, grabbing a handful of rock salt and flinging it towards the bed, crystals thrown in a wide arc over Mrs. Hatch. She goes stock-still for a moment, Dean and Sam creeping forward on opposite sides of the bed, then suddenly gives a great shudder. Her indrawn breaths sound almost painful, harsh and deep, but at least she's breathing.

"Sam?"

"I don't know." His brother's leaning over Mrs. Hatch, who's too focused on getting air to really notice the strangers in her house. 

Dean's about to ask Sam if there's any way to make sure the hag has been finished off, when his little brother is thrown backwards onto the floor. Sam hits the carpet with a loud thump, and his pained gasp is loud enough to hurt Dean. The plantation shutters on the windows clack together and shake, the entire room taken by a tremor. The boo-hag is making her _very_ pissed off presence known.

" _Sam_!" His scream mixes with Mrs. Hatch's as she finally moves, scrambling to ball herself up against the headboard and gripping the magnolia-printed comforter close like it's going to protect her. She's shaking hysterically, hair hanging messily in her face. No fucking help at all. 

Dean is leaping over the bed in an instant, bouncing off the corner and landing hard on his knees beside Sam, the weight of the invisible hag keeping his brother down. This close, the sting of rotting flesh burns Dean's eyes but there's no way to avoid it. Sam is choking right in front of him, limbs thrashing as he struggles futilely, and face going pale from oxygen deprivation. The bag of salt had landed beside the bed and Dean dives for it now, grabbing a messy handful and throwing it over his brother's chest. Sodium chloride confetti dropping and sparking where it falls on the transparent creature.

Immediately, the air in the room shifts. The sound of Sam's first, ragged breath is nearly obliterated by a terrible, unearthly screech, undoubtedly from the boo-hag. The smell in the room turns sharper, sizzling for a moment until it's gone altogether. Shutter planks go still and the room stops spinning around them. Weeks of havoc are ceased in an instant. 

Pulling a nearly boneless Sam off the floor, Dean barely notices movement from the bed. Mrs. Hatch, apparently now in possession of her wits, leans over and stares at them, still clutching her comforter with stubby, ring-laden fingers.

Adrenaline fading, Dean finally gets a good look at the bedroom. Clothes tossed over every piece of furniture, cluttered dresser-tops and streaked mirrors unable to reflect what they see. The den of a different kind of monster, one consumed by self pity and anger. Proof that jealousy can sometimes consume more thoroughly than any curse.

"Who the hell are you?" The wife shrieks.

Dean rolls his eyes, but she can't see. "Just the guys who saved your ass," he snarls. Sam was just attacked and that never leaves Dean feeling particularly charitable.

The woman's still glaring, but her frantic eyes take in the salt scattered like hailstones across her mattress and on the carpet. "How did you get in?"

"The hag was kind enough to leave your door open for us!"

"The - I can't..." Mrs. Hatch begins to stutter. In Dean's experience, sometimes it takes the brain a little bit to catch up with what it has witnessed, despite the fact that the woman was being crushed to death only moments ago. There's shock, mixed with horror, and behind it all, the realization that she's the one who caused this mess in the first place.

"I never meant..." she starts to say, and Dean knows. He knows, but he doesn't really care.

Dean holds onto Sam, able to feel with his entire body how his brother's desperate inhales turn steady and slow, and Sam grips at Dean's legs like the touch can help him recover.

And finally Dean hears Sam's voice, scratchy and sarcastic. "Another satisfied customer."

"Hey," Dean ignores Mrs. Hatch's sputtering in favor of a deep, relieved sigh. "Welcome back. How's your throat?"

"'I'm okay."

"Looked pretty comfy with that hag _ridin_ ' ya," Dean drawls quietly, right in Sam's ear. "Got a fetish you want to tell me about?"

"Jesus, Dean." Sam stammers, but Dean hears the amusement. "Shut up."

* * *

There's a perk to dealing with someone like Mrs. Hatch: no awkward "evil exists" speeches that never end up going the way you want them to. After the Winchesters killed the boo-hag, her eyes never lost their horrified shine; she looked terrified even as Sam and Dean were closing the back door behind them, leaving her alone with her conscience.

Part of Dean is raging when they make it back to the Impala, door slamming too impatiently in the quiet night. Alfreda Hatch caused the death of four people and, except for one hell of a night, got away with it. Families were shredded because one woman flew off the edge. Hasn't she ever heard of a fucking divorce? But the Winchesters aren't the law, regrettably, and they're not a vigilante hand to dole out that kind of justice. Four victims on her head, and Dean's seen enough to know what that kind of weight will do to a person. She may no longer be haunted by the boo-hag, but the knowledge that she was a breath away from death, the horror she caused, will dog her steps. 

Gunning the car, driving away from the losses and the pain left for others to pick up, Dean doesn't feel a stitch of remorse for the torment in Alfreda Hatch's future.

They're alone when they get to the motel. Dean cuts the Impala's engine off, so the only sounds are the waves from over the dunes and chirping of tree frogs. His key scrapes in the door's lock, busted metals grinding together before the tumblers click. All he wants is a steamy shower and dreamless, heavy sleep. Sam has the same idea, pulling Dean towards the bathroom, shedding clothes as they stumble.

The light is dim in the shower, the one remaining bathroom bulb flickers and flares, casting faucets and tiles in barely more than shades of gray. Not much can penetrate the thick, vinyl curtain; the small space in the tub is intimate. Sam and Dean wash each other by touch over sight, sweeps of hand and washcloth that make Sam curl into Dean, yawning under the hot water.

Dean's neck aches, tension pulling his muscles all wrong. He leans on Sam after handing over the washcloth, and his forehead rests on his brother's shoulder–Dean remembers when Sam wasn't tall enough for such a gesture–as Sam soaps him down with lazy strokes.

They share the same thin towel to dry off, leaving the last clean one for Dad. Nothing's been said since they walked back into the room, everything telegraphed with looks and fingertips. When they fall into bed, the frog chirps have given way to bird calls, and a brightening line low on the Eastern horizon tells of a day almost ready to begin.

Dean looks over and Sam's staring at the ceiling, smile crooking the corner of his lips. He strikes Dean as happy, no trace of sullen teenager or reluctant hunter in his body language. Just a simple contentment that Dean wants to be closer to. Scooting across the mattress, he slides into Sam's space, nose tucked against his brother's neck. Dean can't muster the energy to move after that, limbs sinking into the mattress like lead and pinning him for the count.

* * *

Whatever high Sam was riding disappears the next morning when Dad shows up. Dean wishes he could say something–Dad might be proud of them at best, disappointed about the secrets at worst–but Sam shoots him a dark look every time he opens his mouth. So they don't tell Dad. It's easier to let him think they're bored, waiting for his lead or the inevitable "let's hit the road." Soon enough, Dad's distracted by another potential hunt down the coast towards Beaufort. He stays in the room long enough to dole out responsibilities and research before taking off in his truck.

The work makes Sam tuck in on himself psychologically, quiet and unreachable to everyone but Dean. His brother wanders between the beach and the room, drifting away from Dean in the daylight, coming back when Dad has disappeared for the night. Sam fits himself around Dean, melds them together until Dean doesn't know–doesn't care–where one Winchester ends and the other takes over.

Dad's on the phone now, freshly showered and practically mainlining coffee. The room's phone cord is stretched from nightstand to table, and Dad's scribbling hastily on his journal's blank pages. A greasy diner bag sits crumpled on the table next to his elbow, two more on the dresser from lunch.

Dean doesn't need to hear Dad's conversation explicitly to get the gist of it. The long silences while Dad's listening to his contact, followed by a rapid-fire of questions–they're getting ready to move on. Dean aches to get out of the room, maybe walk over the dunes and bury his feet in the sand as far down as they'll go, like the massive trunks of driftwood that sit undisturbed by the tides. One glance at Sam and he realizes that his brother's ready to bolt too, spindle-limbs shaking visibly in an attempt to remain calm.

"Got a line on a hunt in the Everglades, boys."

Dean's up as soon as the phone is set in its cradle, blocking Sam's sour expression from their Dad. "Did Joseph say what it is?"

"Wasn't completely sure, but he had a pretty good idea 'bout it being some kind of swamp creature." Dad folds his maps into neat squares, latching the flap on his already-stuffed journal. "A few days, at most. Thing's got a schedule, apparently. Doesn't attack until a full moon."

With the new moon tonight, at least it gives them some time. "When are we leaving?"

"Got some things I want to finish up around here, and there are a few incidents that look like black magic gone wrong up the coast. Suppose we don't need to move to check that out." Their father rubs a hand over his face, around behind his neck, and sighs. "A week, maybe more."

Or maybe less.

Dad hoists his already packed bag over one shoulder. "I'm gonna head north, see what I can dig up on a wanna-be witch doctor."

"Do you want us to go with you?"

As good as Dean is at reading Dad, he gets a look that he can't quite place: a mix of sadness, tightly-held impatience, and awkwardness. It's as if Dad can't get out of the room fast enough, and Dean suddenly doesn't want to know what kind of thoughts make his father so unbalanced.

"No, I can handle it."

Dean sighs, disappointed. Because witch doctors and black magic are always easier to deal with than this: than Sam's despair and Dean's tenuous hold on the entire situation. He wants to insist on going, follow Dad like the good son he hasn't felt like in at least a year. If Sam were more eager, the way he's been with Dean for the last few weeks.... 

Dean finds and holds his father's eyes for a moment, until he _can't_. Dad's gaze shifts away, out the window, and he doesn't say anything else before he slips out into the baking afternoon sun.

Sam is a statue perched on the bed, tiny movements of his fingers twisting together betray his resentment. Dean's had a lot of practice with moments like these, but he hasn't yet gotten it right. It doesn't mean he can stop trying.

"Maybe we can stop by Disneyworld on the way down."

"I hate Florida."

"Everyone hates Florida," Dean mutters. "But it's better than Ohio."

Sam manages a wry smile - minuscule, but there. "Yeah."

"Sam -"

"I'm going for a walk," his brother mumbles, standing and cutting off whatever pathetic attempt at condolence Dean might make. Sam's used to these moments too, but finds his own way to cope.

"Want company?"

Sam shakes his head and shuts the door quietly behind him, just like Dad. And Dean is left alone, two invisible threads pulling in opposite directions. The thought sinks and circles in the pit of his stomach, but he knows which string he'd cut if he ever had to make a choice.

  
  
_Gullah women pass the skill of sweetgrass weaving down from generation to generation._  


* * *

There's little to keep him occupied until Sam comes back. Dean does his best to avoid thinking: cleans his gun until it gleams and the parts slide together like butter on a warm knife, wanders into the brush and practices throwing knives at the shingled bark of the Washingtonia palms.

Finally, after the sun goes down in a blaze of orange and gray that Dean can't dig up the energy to appreciate, Sam wanders back into the room. His brother seems less agitated, settling on the bed next to Dean with a heavy sigh. Dean mutes the movie, letting the light from the screen pass over them in flashes and shadows.

"I talked to Marietta," Sam offers a few minutes later, voice hushed.

"Tell her we smoked her boo-hag?"

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure she thanked us." His brother faces the screen, blank eyes not really catching whatever late-night offering Dean had stopped on. "She said that she'd prayed for the spirits to stop."

"Shows how well that works."

Sam doesn't argue, rolls on his stomach instead. "And she told me something else."

"Mmm? What's that?"

"That when you make a wish under the new moon, it comes true."

Dean pokes Sam with his elbow, soft smile lit by the television. "Probably just a silly kids' story."

"Probably." 

Sam's face turns, cheek resting comfortably on his forearm. His eyes show other possibilities though, and Dean starts contemplating idealism. Those thoughts never lead anywhere productive, so he stems the flow by sliding up to Sam and nudging him over so his lips are in reach. Gentle to start, relief after being denied all day. Sam falls into it, pressing against Dean's chest and throwing a leg over his hip to keep them together. Everything else disappears until Sam is Dean's only anchor to the world; he wouldn't have it any other way. A supple, playful mouth parting for Dean's tongue, hands pushing and kneading.

The threadbare t-shirt is all that's keeping Dean from Sam's warm skin, and it disappears hastily. With little light in the room, his brother's skin looks even darker, bronzed to perfection from hours under the sub-tropical sun. Dean's hand appears pale on Sam's shoulder, an arousing contrast like Sam is something exotic, more beautiful than usual.

Dean rolls Sam beneath him, noses and knees touching. Sam's arm smacks around for the television remote, a single click plunging the room into darkness. It's close and claustrophobic with the pitch pressing close, Sam beneath him again. The need for deep breaths makes Dean pull back, willing his body under control. He's aware of the desperate edge to his breathing. The feeling takes him back to when he and Sam started this _thing_ between them, back to when everything felt so good–always edged with the threat of getting caught–he didn' t know where to begin.

Lying like this, Dean can wrap his body completely around his brother. Sam's arms are loose around his neck, tickling fingers drawing nonsensical patterns along Dean's nape. The fine hairs on Sam's forearms, bleached soft from the sun, rub on Dean's cheeks. Kisses are laid to Sam's face, his cheekbones and chin. To Sam's throat, there are languid touches of tongue where neck meets shoulder. His brother's eyes track him, watching with mild amusement until he blinks lazily.

"Tired?" Dean leans closer when those eyes reopen.

"Not quite."

There's a Pavlovian trigger in Sam's warm smile. Formerly cute dimples and lips now stir deep within Dean's gut. He kisses his brother again, eyes locked until their mouths connect, and then he lets go. Sam is eager, his entire body an exposed wire that crackles and pulses wherever Dean touches him. The reactions drive Dean's arousal to its peak, his erection hardening where it is trapped against Sam's hip.

Any more of his brother's slick mouth and Dean's going to come embarrassingly fast. He pulls away to yank off his jeans–temper the fire–and Sam kicks off his shorts. Bared, the feast begins again. Sam's fingers wind through Dean's hair, guiding and encouraging while Dean tastes the sun soaked into his brother's skin. From newly freckled shoulders to his lightly muscled chest, down Sam's ribs to where the skin turns paler. Hidden from the sun's burning gaze, the soft expanses of Sam's thighs are meant only for Dean's eyes.

Dean's mouth wants to trace that paler skin. He tries to turn Sam over, but his brother reels him close.

"Wasn't gonna stop, you know."

"I know," Sam breathes. "Just want more."

Sam's mouth is sweet–an opiate kiss that envelops Dean in its warm glow, movements long and slow. There's the throb of Sam's pulse where their chest lay pressed together, Dean's own heartbeat slowing to meet it. When Sam's tongue flicks against his, Dean feels the pleasure fluttering down his spine, all the way to his toes.

Dean flips Sam onto his stomach before he's distracted; Sam laughs like he expected the move all along. And this, Dean can appreciate. More than the sublimity of nature, or the subjective beauty of art. The sight of Sam spread beneath him–so pliable and very much _Dean's_ –sets him on a possessive binge. Dean's lips glide across the downy skin on the back of Sam's thighs, untouched by the sun, and savors his brother's hitching breaths.

The heat in the room–the heat between them–slicks Dean's muscles with sweat. On Sam it gathers in the valley between his shoulder blades, a salty offering to Dean's tongue. He doesn't want to hurry this, a rare opportunity for touching Sam to excess.

"Dean..." Sam whispers, back bowed against Dean's chest.

"I know," is all Dean can say, grinding between Sam's legs where the ache runs deepest.

And they don't always get this far–Dean never stops discovering ways to get off with Sam–but he needs it tonight. Sam too, by the way his brother bends and pleads. So much for not rushing, but Dean's always been helpless when it comes to Sam's wants.

"Sammy," Dean groans.

"Yeah, got it." Sam stretches over the edge of the bed, head disappearing as he roots in Dean's bag. "Here," he tosses back a well creased tube, shifting under Dean. "Just hurry."

Sam sounds more in control, but Dean feels the shiver under Sam's skin when he brings cool, slick fingers down, easing them into Sam's body as carefully as the first time. One hand on the bed for balance, and Sam grips Dean's wrist tightly, teetering on the edge that separates pleasure from pain. But after a moment, Sam's fingers loosen, and he moans as his body bears back against Dean's hand.

Dean can't touch himself beyond a quick swipe of lube for prep–just having Sam around his fingers is enough to set his blood burning. And when he pushes in, the grounding sensation is the one thing keeping Dean from flying apart. Every sense is focused on that point of contact, nerves firing in rapid succession between brain and body to bring back only one response– _Sammy_.

It always begins the same way. Sam's muscles tense along his spine, flexing and relaxing in sequence until he takes a deep breath, nodding into the comforter. Dean's hips move in a gradually increasing swing–a slow invasion. Right now, Dean can relish the emotions: the affection and trust almost palpable from Sam, conveying back sheer contentment. It's clear– and free– in a way a Winchester's life rarely is. These moments might come few and far between–the times when he and Sam can be two men with nothing between them, nothing around them–but Dean is so fucking selfish. He knows he can never give them up.

Dean drapes himself over Sam's lean back, their hips pressing together, and Dean's belly fitting to the curve of his brother's spine.

"Is this what you wished for?"

His brother bears back against him, pulling Dean deep within. Dean feels the vibrations of Sam's throat when he answers.

"Doesn't work if you tell."

Leaning back, Dean's hands grasp Sam's ass tightly. With his thrusts, his brother's hips are bouncing on the mattress, down-and-back onto Dean. Sam is up on his elbows–concave stretch of spine–so he can look back at Dean. The way Sam is writhing, it must feel as good for him as it does for Dean. He's rutting down into the comforter with every thrust, no space for Dean to reach between and palm his erection. As it is, Dean can barely think: Sam's involuntary grip, the moans, the smell of their sweat. All of it forces Dean into a desperate rhythm. Sam's the only one with the knowledge, conscious or not, of how to break Dean down.

It'll never last long enough–bump and grind and _holy shit_. Dean is fucking Sam deep–mindless to everything but getting off–and Sam jerks with the force, but his keens only spur Dean's hips. Higher and higher until the bed frame cracks against drywall and Dean groans loudly enough to drown the surf. 

Dean's neck snaps back, breath stuck in his throat when he comes. Just when Dean's thrusts ease, the white-hot bolts shifting to tingles and sensitivity, Sam bites off a moan and comes on the comforter. There's hot, sticky wetness on Dean's fingers when he reaches under his brother to stroke him through the aftershocks.

He doesn't even mind the heat when he collapses on Sam's back, up and down movements with Sam's deep breaths.

But Sam minds, apparently.

"Jeez," his brother groans, pushing for leverage on the bed to flip Dean. "Get off."

When Dean turns, Sam hoists himself up and scoots towards the pillows, waiting for Dean to flop down before curling close.

It's inexplicably comfortable, knowing what to expect when his head hits the pillow. Sam warm against his side, fingers trailing through their mess before it gets cool and uncomfortable. Then, by rote, Sam gets up for a towel, a spare pillowcase–whatever's handy. The evidence is cleared away, one less thing to worry about. Dad doesn't barge in anymore, but it never hurts.

"I don't want to leave," Sam says, back beside him. His words dissolve the near-sleep Dean's trying to hang onto.

"It'll be okay." A thousand platitudes for this, and Dean's not sure of any of them. "Just get some sleep."

Silence for a few minutes, the constant thrum of the AC unit bleeding into Dean's dreams.

"I wish–"

"Don't." Dean holds Sam's wrist. Maybe he can drag his brother into the elusive dream. "Won't work if you say it out loud, remember?"

And Dean wants Sam's wish–doesn't even need to know what it is–to come true someday.

"Dean–"

"You're still talking," he grumbles, and then there's not so much as a whisper.

Sam falls asleep first, limbs sprawled away from Dean, as usual.

"Night, Sammy."

Even ideal summers have to end. Everything _ends_. But Dean's gotten a glimpse of what life could be like, hunting with Sam. A Sam who is eager, motivated instead of dragged down by family loyalty and the burden of being a _good son_. Teamwork over orders. Seemingly out of reach, but it's an existence he wants to look forward to. Dean may have to wait, but when the Winchester's crusade is done and buried, he can stay with Sam, and it will be enough.

Someday.

Before sunrise, Dean makes his wish.

 

FIN.

  
  
_Unitarian Cemetery - Charleston_  


**Author's Note:**

>  _Bukrah_ \- white men.  
>  _Gullah_ \- [Language] an English-based creole marked by vocabulary and grammatical elements from various African languages. [People] Descendants of West African slaves who remained in coastal South Carolina and Georgia after slavery was abolished.  
>  _Honor de'grabes_ \- Gullah culture accepts the supernatural but knows the importance of honoring the spirits and souls of the dead. They believe that spirits, benevolent ones, remain behind to participate in the lives of their family, while souls return to God.  
>  _Shaking hands_ \- It is a Gullah belief that shaking hands puts a curse on both people. It's not too common now to avoid shaking hands, but there are still people who refuse, politely.  
>  _Unitarian Church and Cemetery_ \- pictured multiple times here, and referenced in the story. It's a beautiful cemetery, old and overgrown, in downtown Charleston. It's also said to be haunted by multiple ghosts, the most famous of which is one-time Charleston resident Edgar Allan Poe's **Annabel Lee**. It's tucked away downtown, but draws so many tourists and locals alike.


End file.
